Maybe Not Today
by Yessica-N
Summary: Some days, you feel a bit under the weather. Luckily you have a monster boyfriend to cheer you up. (Sans x Depressed!Reader fluff)


**This story was a commission by The Great Wordologist on tumblr. Thank you for the support!**

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If somebody would have come up to the past incarnation of yourself, and told you that by this time next year you'd be sharing a room with two living, walking skeletons, you would have probably not believed them.

And if that person would then mention you'd be dating one of them too, you'd have definitely send them off with a pat on the back and the advice to maybe go see a psychiatrist soon.

Yet here you are, huddled on a lumpy green sofa, staring at the little smiley faces on your socks. Nothing could be further from your mind right now, trying hard to convince yourself that maybe it's just a bad day.

A bad week, a bad month.

Maybe the tiredness weighing you down, making it hard to go out for work, to get out of bed in the mornings, to breathe, will go away on its own. Maybe you can just ignore it.

You sigh, and it sticks to your throat a bit, like acid. You feel like maybe you want to cry, but you're not sure why. You just feel like crap, basically.

The door opens with a soft click, you can't bare to raise your head, preferring to pull the blanket over your face and wallow in misery a bit more. You're definitely not up for listening to another long-winded explanation on how you should just 'get over it' and 'stop pitying yourself'.

Instead, something touches the back of your head in passing, softly, as the footsteps retreat into the kitchen. You judge it to be Sans by the almost lazy gait, but don't say anything to him.

A few moments later he's back, and the couch dips down besides you. "Having a rough day?"

You merely grunt in response, as if your entire posture doesn't already scream "Please leave me alone, I'm trying to be wretched here". But apparently your monster boyfriend didn't get the memo.

"Really rough then, I take it?" He rubs his hand down the back of your spine soothingly. It isn't very warm, but it feels nice all the same.

You lean into it almost subconsciously, even as your brain is yelling at you for accepting his comfort. You don't deserve such niceness.

The two of you sit like that for a moment, skeletal fingers touching your hair carefully, and you feel like maybe it's almost enough. Almost.

"What's the definition of a will?" He asks suddenly, and you can't help but peek over the edge of the cover, watching with confused eyes.

Sans seems to expect some kind of answer, but you're not really up for coherent thoughts right now, so you shrug instead.

"Oh come on, it's a dead giveaway."

The pun is met with silence, him grinning as usually while you try to process the pure terribleness of the joke. Maybe the corner of your mouth pulls up an inch, but you can't muster the energy for a more intense reaction.

"...Right." His shoulders slump and for a moment you feel even more terrible, guilty for making him feel bad too. Just because you're a horrible person doesn't mean Sans deserves this.

He jumps from the couch with vigor you're not used to seeing in him, and if you didn't know better you would think the empty sockets that function as his eyes have a mischievous shine to them. "Don't worry, I know just how to fix this."

He's gone before you can even open your mouth, so you lean your head against the backrest instead, staring at the off-white of the ceiling and sigh.

This ought to be good.

* * *

By the time he returns, you have almost drifted away into a pleasant state of unconsciousness. You force your eyes open as Sans nudges you in the side to scoot over on the couch, and you do so with another sigh, feeling the vertebrae in your neck creak.

After blinking a few times, you notice the tv is on. You're not sure what's playing though, distracted by the sound of a plate hitting the coffee table in front of you, and an overwhelming smell of tomato sauce.

You swallow thickly, food being the last thing on your mind at the moment, but Sans is looking at you expectantly, so you grab the dish anyway.

"Papyrus' cooking?" You ask, looking at the pasta almost apprehensively. In the few months of living together with the two skeleton brothers, you haven't actually gotten the opportunity to taste the youngest his culinary endeavors, but you have it from reliable sources that it's... quite the experience.

"It's not as bad as they say. He has improved a lot, recently. I think getting cooking lessons from an actual chef made a lot of difference." Sans pushes the fork into your hand with a small grin. "Just try it. It will make you feel better."

You highly doubt it, but concede anyway, twirling some of the noodles onto your utensil and shoving it into your mouth less than gracefully.

"What's this?" You ask, gesturing vaguely at the screen.

"It's that guy you like." Sans says, sitting back and tugging at the blanket until you allow him to join you under it. His bones are hard and pokey, not like what a human lover would feel like, but you lean against him anyway. "You know, the pilot guy."

You almost choke on your food trying to suppress a snicker. "Benedict Cumberbatch is the pilot guy?" On the screen, aforementioned actor is busy solving crime or something, you're not really paying attention.

"Well, yeah, you know..." The skeleton next to you gestures awkwardly, then takes advantage of the motion to wrap one arm around your shoulder. It's an extremely cheesy thing to do, but you let him anyway. "That radio show you're always listening too."

"Yeah, I know." You mumble around a mouthful of spaghetti, staring at a spot above the television.

For a while, it's ok, just sitting like that with the white noise of the series playing in the background.

But the eerie feeling in your stomach is far from gone, clawing at your insides, telling you something's wrong. Something's always wrong.

If only you could pin down what.

"Why are you doing this?" You ask, and maybe your voice trembles a bit, but you're hoping Sans won't notice.

"Doing what?" All innocent smiles and casual tone of voice, but you can feel the tension in his body against yours.

"Being all... nice and caring." The words taste almost foul in your mouth. Why are you always so ungrateful?

He frowns at you as if he almost can't believe what you are saying. Maybe he can't. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you don't have to do this." You push against him to sit up, lean away as you put the plate down. His arm falls limply against the cushion and he stares at your reaction. "You don't have to put up with my dramatics."

You try hard not to bite your own tongue, wrapping your arms around yourself instead, seriously wishing you could simply disappear right now. "It's fine, I'm just being stupid again."

The silence is almost suffocating, and you will every nerve in your body to just stay still. You and you're stupid comments.

Then you can feel his arms wrap around you, tugging your head against his chest, the small light of a soul shining just below the sacrum.

"You're not being stupid." He says firmly, cradling one hand through your hair lightly. "You're just not alright. And that's ok."

You open your mouth to protest, to tell Sans that it's not ok, that you're overreacting and should just suck it up. All the words they've been throwing at you for years now echoing in your head.

But he doesn't even give you the chance.

"Everybody feels bad from time to time. And some people a bit more often than others. Believe me, I know all about that." Something in his voice makes you sad, makes tears build around the corners of your eyes. "But that is not something to feel even worse about. It doesn't make you less worthy as a person, either. It just makes you you."

Your breath hitches, burns inside your lungs. "I hate being me sometimes." You mumble against his chest bone.

Sans chuckles at that, warmly. "I know. But you're still here, and that's all that matters."

You sigh, try to believe in these words, feel the truth in them. "I guess."

"Of course, I would never lie to you... after all-" You can feel his grin grow wider against your cheek, the omen of an incoming Sans-quality pun, and you quickly turn your head to silence him.

"Don't even dare finishing that sentence." You say, in your best impression of annoyance.

Sans pecks you on the lips quickly. "Just because you asked so nicely. Feel any better?"

You hum in agreement, allowing him to replace his arm around your shoulder and staring at the tv screen.

Maybe that dark brooding voice in your head won't leave anytime soon. But at least you can smother it for the time being.

Half an hour you're both asleep.

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